


For When He Wakes

by Gayani



Series: Napping [4]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: And Joan is his reluctant babysitter, But still bromantic too, Clyde - Freeform, F/M, Maybe a little Joanlock, Sherlock is a cranky toddler, cause I still can't decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayani/pseuds/Gayani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan tries to get Sherlock to sleep, with varying degrees of success. Cross your eyes and you might see Joanlock. Also posted on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	For When He Wakes

**Author's Note:**

> The last part of the Napping series! It’s been fun writing these seeing as I might be obsessed with sleep and I certainly don’t get as much as I want :p As always thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing)! Enjoy!

“Do you know the meaning of the word rest?”

Sherlock scoffs at her. “Why would I _rest_?” The word comes out of his mouth like a curse and he scrunches his face as he says it.

“Maybe because the human body needs it.” Watson leans across the kitchen table and shuts the book he was examining. “I don’t think you’ve slept more than six hours, _this week_. You’ve barely just started your recovery. Your mind and body need the time to recharge. And you don’t have a case, so there are no excuses.” Watson crosses her arms over her chest and looks down at him.

“Do I seem tired, Watson? Do I appear to be worn out?” He hits the t at the end of the sentence with a hard staccato then lifts his eyebrows at her.

“The word cranky comes to mind.” She replies flatly and tries not to smile when he pouts in return.

“I am neither an old man nor a toddler so that word does not apply!” He flips his book back open defiantly and she can’t help but think that he appears to be both.

Watson sighs and tries a different tactic. She sits down next to him and once more closes the book and draws it away from him. “Just do me a favor. Take a break and lay down for 30 minutes. If you’re still ready to work after that I’ll give this back to you.” She picks the book up, then nudges Sherlock’s elbow. He scowls but obliges, getting up from the table and walking into his room with Watson at his heels.

He lays back on the bed, on top of the covers, crosses his hands over his belly and stares up at the ceiling as she watches him.

For exactly 30 minutes Sherlock’s gaze flits from the ceiling above him, to his clasped hands, to Joan’s watchful eye. By minute 8 he can see the annoyance creeping into her look despite her attempt to fight it. By minute 14 she is veritably tapping her toe in impatience. At minute 23 he sees her surreptitiously glance at her watch, clearly wondering if she should just wave her white flag now and be done with it.

When the 30 minutes ends, Sherlock places his feet on the ground and bounds to where she leans on the doorjamb. “As you can see Watson, _naptime_ was entirely unnecessary.” He snatches the book away from her as he moves into the kitchen.

She rolls her eyes at his turned back and heads towards the staircase, deciding some time away from him was certainly called for. “I’m sure a toddler has never stubbornly stayed awake during naptime.” She adds sarcastically as she mounts the stairs.

Sherlock whips his head towards her, pouting, about to protest, but Watson is already out of sight. “Not a toddler.” He tells himself instead and leans back over his book stubbornly.

* * *

 

_Thwack_

The pillow smacks Sherlock in the face and Watson watches amused as his arms bat upwards, his face scrunched up and his eyes still closed. He spastically thrashes for a moment before his eyes pop open and his gaze comes up to hers. He frowns at her smile.

“Oh, you’re awake.” The sarcastic tone makes him pout up at her. His arms are hovering over his head haphazardly as if still bracing for an attack.

“You know, this works out nicely. The kitchen could really use a cleaning.” Watson’s voice sing songs above him and he swings himself up. In two movements he is on his feet facing her, his body taut with attention.

“What happened to all your preaching in regards to sleep, Watson?” He argues.

“I need a mug and it’s your turn to clean the kitchen, Sherlock. Besides, you and I both know you’re rested enough.” She narrows her eyes at him knowingly.

Sherlock searches for a moment for a counter argument and scowls when he can’t find one. With no recourse he shuffles away and down the staircase.

Watson calls out after him, “I even bought dish soap for you!”

He hears the triumphant tone in her voice and grumbles, “You may have won this round Watson, but I will get you still.”

* * *

 

“Go home Sherlock!” Watson all but demands.

Sherlock glances up at her from his spot on the floor in the middle of her apartment. She’s wearing her red cardigan, her arms crossed over her chest as her foot fidgets impatiently.

He gives her a slightly offended look in exchange. “The case, Watson!” he admonishes.

She huffs at his response. “I am going to sleep, so whatever work you need to do can wait until you get back to the brownstone. I’m sure Kitty would be very excited to help you.”

Sherlock frowns. “Kitty is _out with friends_ as you had suggested she go. So she will not be of assistance tonight.”

Watson appears unmoved as she continues to stare down Sherlock.

“Ah…you and Andrew are playing at St. George then is it?” Sherlock wiggles his hand towards Watson’s closed bedroom door as he cocks a brow at her.

“What?” Watson tilts her head in that fashion that tells him she thinks he’s nuts.

Sherlock merely tumbles his hand about with a suggestive smile, to which Watson looks satisfactorily disgusted.

“What? No! Stop that!” She finally comes to the floor, pushing at his naughty hand as she kneels in front of him. “That’s not what you going home is about!”

Sherlock analyzes her for the briefest of moments. “You’re blushing Watson.”

She merely scoffs and tosses her hair. “Whatever. The point is, you need to go home.”

“No reason to be embarrassed. As former flatmates you have certainly experienced your share of my sexual enterprises and predilections. I have no discomfort in overhearing yours. And certainly I never meant for you to keep them away from the brownstone during that time. Although, it was a wise choice to not bring Mycroft under our roof for your spanks and giggles.” Sherlock makes a face at the last thought as Watson looks at him with mild terror.

“Please stop talking.”

“Quite.” Sherlock agrees readily.

The door opens behind Watson and Andrew peers his head around, his bare shoulder emerging as well. “Hey Sherlock. Spending the night?” Andrew smiles warmly at Watson’s former partner.

“No!” Watson interrupts as Sherlock opens his mouth to speak.

“The couch seems pretty comfortable if you ask me.” Andrew shrugs.

“I don’t sleep.” Sherlock informs him before Watson can say no again.

“Oh, then I guess you’re just fine with the floor.” Andrew nods.

“Sherlock is going home.” Watson gives Sherlock a pointed look.

“But-“ Sherlock prepares to argue before he is interrupted by Andrew.

“It’s already late. Probably better if he stays, don’t you think Joan?” Andrew suggests with mild concern.

She turns her pointed gaze to Andrew who looks slightly confused.

“Wonderful! It’s settled! You two off to bed, I have much work to do still.” Sherlock gives Watson a victorious look before he waves her away.

Watson gives up and follows Andrew to the bedroom. She stops at the door and turns back. “Just…no crazy wake ups, okay?”

“Perish the thought Watson!” Sherlock tells her sportingly. The look in his eye tells her otherwise. Watson rolls her eyes and shuts the bedroom door behind her.

* * *

 

Watson sighs. “Just go to sleep will you?”

“P-m-guh! I do not require sleep!” Sherlock gesticulates, his arms swinging around him as his face contorts with disagreement.

He looks a mess. More so than usual, that is. His hair sticks out in all directions, his eyes bug out, bloodshot against the dark circles underneath. His clothes look as if he has spent the past three weeks rolling around in them…pretty close to the truth really.

Watson watches him run his hand through his hair as he hovers over the experiment he has been refusing to leave for days now. She had already told him in no uncertain terms to not involve her in this one. It was a rare couple of days without a case and she wanted, no needed, the downtime. But now she wasn’t sure if Sherlock’s current craze pertained to that damnable experiment or if it had more to do with said lack of case.

“This experiment is critical, Watson.” He leans over the box maniacally and she finally ventures over begrudgingly.

“You’re harassing Clyde.” She mutters unconvinced.

“Not! Not harassing! Clyde is a willing participant!” Sherlock insists.

“Like with the paintings?” Watson sighs again.

“He has a mind and free spirit! He desires stimulation, a challenge!” Sherlock’s fingers dance in the air as he speaks fervently. “It is my bound duty to help him find his way! Much like a parent.” Sherlock watches Clyde with interest.

“Are you telling me you’ve been up for three days straight so you could watch Clyde go through a maze?” Watson isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Every iteration of the maze is more challenging that the last!” Sherlock turns and beams at her with pride. “The last one took me 30 minutes to build and he got through it in 10! TEN WATSON!” His eyes are about to pop out of his head.

She takes a step back from his booming voice. “Have you been giving Clyde a break?” She leans down concerned as Clyde exits the maze successfully. “I think he’s tired.”

“Pfft! Tired. Please. Clyde has the energy of a tortoise half his age!” Sherlock scowls at her as he leans back against the wall behind him.

“That may be so,” she says knowingly, “but I think he has earned a rest.” She turns away from Sherlock and takes Clyde back to his regular habit across the room, settling him in with a fresh piece of lettuce.

“Maybe you can continue after Clyde has had a break.” Watson turns back to find Sherlock slumped against the wall, his hands limp at his sides, eyes closed, mouth hanging open as he begins to snore. She laughs quietly to herself and retrieves the thick blanket from the couch. She drapes it over him carefully, wishing she could move him from his currently precarious position but knowing that if he wakes he won’t sleep for another whole day. Instead she runs her fingers through his hair, pushing it into a vague resemblance of submission before turning out the lights.

* * *

 

At 2:16 am Joan wakes with a start. Her eyes widen in the darkness of her bedroom, not quite sure what startled her. There’s a loud clang and she recognizes exactly why she is awake.

“Ugh...Sherlock.” Joan mumbles sleepily as she rolls out of bed and stumbles out of her room. She makes her way towards the light of the library, rubbing her eyes as she goes and wishing she had brought her sweater along.

As Joan reaches the bottom step there’s another loud clang and she nearly slips from the surprise.

“Watson!” Sherlock’s voice sounds bright as she rounds the corner and enters the space. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your slumber!” Despite the tenor of his voice, as she comes face to face with him she can see the exhaustion creeping around his edges.

She places her hands on her hip and cocks her head at him. “What are you doing? Do you know what time it is?” Joan asks with mild annoyance.

“Yes! Yes…quite aware yes. I had a…brainstorm…you see…” He gestures idly with his hand, his eyes dart around the room and his thought trails off unfinished. She is surprised to see how out of sorts he seems.

She slides closer, taking the hand gong and mallet from his grip. She doesn’t even want to consider where it came from or why he’s using it. She places the items back on the table and takes hold of his wrist. “It’s time for bed.” Joan states as she drags him to the staircase intent on tucking him into his bed before going back to hers.

Sherlock stops, and tugs his wrist back without removing it from her fingers. She turns back to look at him. His eyes shift from side to side. “There’s an…experiment…”

“On your bed?” She’s not sure she will ever understand certain parts of his logic.

“Yes, you see-“

“Nope. Don’t care. Tell me another time.” Joan’s eyes scan the couch. Although they have both at times slept on it she has a feeling leaving him there will not lead to him actually sleeping. And despite the fact that he hasn’t yet protested the idea of sleep, she knows that left to his own devices he may stay awake and likely further disrupt her own rest.

Instead she turns and leads him to the other staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Sherlock sounds alarmed though he continues to follow in her wake, trailing up the stairs behind her.

“To bed. You need to sleep. And I do too.”

“I-In your bed?!” Sherlock shrills, somehow seeming to muster the British prudishness he usually lacks.

“As if you haven’t slept there before.” Watson answers knowingly.

Sherlock scoffs but offers no excuse, explanation or further objection.

Joan climbs into bed and slides over, her hand on his wrist guides Sherlock into bed behind her.

“Two rules.” She instructs him as she slips under the covers and settles against her pillow. “No more interrupting my sleep and don’t hog the covers.”

They’re asleep within minutes, one of Sherlock’s leg’s tangled with Joan’s.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Playing at St. George’ originates from the story of St George and the Dragon where the dragon rears up from the lake to tower over the saint. In the 1800s it became a term for a woman in the role of the dragon, or on top…the more you know, courtesy of Mental Floss.


End file.
